Thistle rose slowly from the river.
The cold, heavy water clung to her naked body, but the dry wind from the dead forest swept across her skin like a living breath. Silver droplets ran in slow, glistening trails down her full, perky breasts, over her flat stomach, and between her thighs. The golden blood swirled around her in luminous circles, mixing with the river water and leaving faint, shimmering trails on her untouched skin. Her nipples stood stiff and rosy, the pink folds of her pussy glistening as the last drops of water and the Goddess's essence slid away. She was pure — completely, radiantly pure.
She stepped out of the river and walked barefoot up the riverbank. The dead forest stretched before her, blackened and silent, the split Magica Tree rising at its heart like a broken cathedral. The air was thick with the scent of decay and old stone, yet something ancient and hopeful pulsed beneath it.
Thistle walked straight to the Magica Tree.
